


Lay Down the Rose

by dayinthelife



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, Arranged Marriage, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2013-04-20
Packaged: 2017-12-09 00:43:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayinthelife/pseuds/dayinthelife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for round 6 of the GOT-exchange. An AU where the marriage of Lysa Tully and Jaime Lannister happens.</p><p> <br/>Lysa Lannister is nothing if not astute, and she had quickly learned that her husband found the feel of steel beneath his fingertips more appealing than the soft flesh of her breasts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Down the Rose

Lysa wakes to an empty bed. She is not surprised; her lord husband usually wakes earlier than she, sometimes earlier than the sun itself, and he has never been one to lie about frivolously when he could be in the practice yard, his breath ghosting in front of him in the morning chill as he cuts down foes of wood and cloth. Lysa Lannister (even years later the sound of it sends a thrill down her spine) is nothing if not astute, and she had quickly learned that her husband found the feel of steel beneath his fingertips more appealing than the soft flesh of her breasts. 

It had disappointed her at first of course, his lack of interest. In the beginning she had hoped that she might make him happy; that she might be the cause of those secretive smirks so often upon his lips, that she might share in the careless laughter and witty conversation that seemed always to surround him, a sea of easy mirth and joviality and he the undercurrent of it all. She did not expect the light in his eyes to dull the day he relieved her of her maiden cloak. In the coming years he was not cruel to her and made certain that she never lacked any comforts, but Lysa could not help feeling like a stranger in her own halls, in her own bed, where it seemed she had become a living specter, only sought out in times of duty despite all her best efforts. Still, she nurtured a small seed of hope that he would change, that he would collect bits of affection for her day by day like kindling, like she had for him, building upon their marriage gradually and igniting the sort of slow burning love that would weather the storms of the years. 

That hope had died in the birthing bed, where he had abandoned her to scream and thrash and beg for death (there was so much blood, why was there always so much blood?) with only her septa and maester beside her. He may have abandoned her then, but he had also given her a gift that day, another to bestow upon the love and affections she had been amassing inside all those years. He had given her a son, and so she could forgive him his shortcomings and settled into a comfortable coexistence.

So she is relatively unperturbed as she disentangles herself from the otherwise empty crimson bed sheets, and she pads barefoot across the cold stone floor to her window. The beauty of the Westerlands surpasses even the loveliest of views she remembers from her girlhood at Riverrun, the snowcapped mountains to the east and Sunset Sea to the west dwarfing the hills and streams of the Riverlands in comparison. She places a hand on the windowpane as she gazes upon her realm, the sun climbing its way into the sky and beginning to burn away the sleepy mists of dawn, revealing lush green lands alive with wildflowers fresh come with the new spring, and a small part of her wonders if Cat finds the world of her northern kingdom just as magnificent. 

She sees Jaime in the yard below, a wooden practice sword in hand as he maneuvers about in the dirt, a young boy with honey blond hair dogging each step he takes. Her lord husband missteps and Gerold takes advantage, striking his father in the shoulder. Lysa smiles as Jaime ruffles his son’s hair and she puts a hand on her stomach; it is only slightly swollen, but she can already feel the life taking root inside of her and knows that this one will be strong as well, just like her sweet Gerold. She isn’t sure when she will tell Jaime she is with child again, or perhaps she should say nothing at all, and instead let the swell of her breasts and stomach inform him on their own time. 

When she had first told him she was pregnant four months after their marriage, he had been astonished, and the flicker of relief that flashed across his face after she had woken to a bed of blood several weeks later still burned in her mind. It had taken another two years for her to get with child again, two years of delicate hope and dread (she blamed their infrequent bedding, but in the darkest corner of her mind there dwelled a hideous little voice that sometimes hissed to her heart at the hour of the wolf, _tansy_ ), and after nine months of behaving as though she were made of glass, Jaime returned home from King’s Landing one evening to find her holding a pink and squalling infant. He had seemed at a loss at first, but as the days progressed and he looked into his son’s eyes, so much like Jaime and his twin’s own, he began to love him, just as she knew he would. She noticed with satisfaction the amusement returning to his eyes as their child took his first steps, spoke his first words, held his first sword.

Later, when the sun has sunk into the sea and she has pressed a kiss into her son’s red-gold curls, she approaches her lord husband in their chambers, circling her arms around his waist and placing her forehead between his shoulder blades. He would leave for King’s Landing on the morrow, and though his trips are somewhat frequent and expected, Lysa always loathes his absence. She sighs and breathes him in, hoping her gesture is more romantic than petulant. Jaime places his hands on her wrists and pulls her closer, turning to face her with a smile on his face. 

“Sweetling, you of all people should know that I must go, it is my _duty_ , after all,” he says, brushing his lips against her forehead. It has become somewhat of a ritual, this dance of reluctance and faux-hesitation before he leaves for court, but in the end Lysa always relents and he always presses a chaste kiss to her cheek before mounting his palfrey and riding off for a fortnight or two. 

“It is _family_ , then duty, my lord,” Lysa complains, and she is sure she sounds petulant now, her mouth drawn into a small frown even as he runs his hands through her hair. But then his lips are ghosting on her neck and his hands are pushing her gown off her shoulders and Lysa cannot help the small moan that escapes her lips (he is always more affectionate the nights before he leaves, but each time he still manages to catch her unawares). Jaime laughs into her throat and continues to disrobe her, trailing his fingers between her freckled breasts and cupping them gently before taking her mouth in his own. He puts a hand on her waist and guides her toward their bed, laying her back amongst the pillows before pulling off his shirt and unlacing his breeches. 

He is hard against her thigh as he presses her into the featherbed, his mouth hot and insistent on her lips, her neck, her chest. She moans as his fingers explore between her thighs, and threads her hands through his hair when he finally pushes inside of her. Moments like this are few and far between and she treasures them, with Jaime alive and feverish above her, his eyes alight with lust as he whispers the nonsense of lovemaking into her hair, murmuring against her neck with every thrust. He works his hand between them, rubbing circles on the spot that makes her moan until she writhes with pleasure at her release. He comes soon after, and she relishes the feeling of his seed inside her. He kisses her brow and she smiles contentedly, tracing a finger along his jawbone.

“Will you please stay, my lord?” she asks, although she already knows the answer.

He sighs and kisses her in response. 

“Goodnight, sweetling.”

In the morning she wakes to an empty bed; her lord husband usually wakes earlier than she, and he is already down at the stables by the time she dresses and ventures out into the cool morning. Gerold has helped his father prepare his horse and takes her hand when she approaches. Jaime’s smile falters for a moment when he sees her, but then he catches his son in a hug before pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek. As his horse disappears beyond the hills, Lysa wonders if he will notice the swell of her stomach upon his return.

**Author's Note:**

> Concrit/feedback always welcome and appreciated!


End file.
